Just Put Your Hands On Me
by myheartisyours0523
Summary: Puck and Sam make a bet; Kurt is oblivious.
1. Chapter 1

**Rated T - Obvious reasons, guys. Swearing, sexual content, other such things.**

**I wanted to write something fun...And I saw something similar to this and made it my own. **

**This is only the prologue.**

**More soon!  
**

**Slash. :D**

**Summary - Puck and Sam make a bet.**

* * *

"Are you questioning my badassness?"

The growled question was Puck's first mistake. It was the little spark that started everything, what started the long journey to a burning catastrophe.

Puck would like to blame it partly on Sam (he had, in fact, questioned Puck's badassness), but it had been about his reputation, about his self esteem.

"You think you can get _anyone, _Puckerman? What are you, an idiot?"

Puck had thought that the kid seriously had a death wish; there he was, sitting with his arm wrapped smugly around Quinn, calling the self-proclaimed badass an idiot.

And Puck had _just _gotten out of juvy.

"Name anyone."

He wondered if he would've pursued him, even if Sam had chosen someone else; there had always been that weird, gravitational pull between them that totally _freaked _him out.

But it was bearable, as long as Kurt wasn't wearing something incredibly sexy.

Which, of course, he had been that day.

Puck found out rather quickly that he was a sucker for tight McQueen jeans and suspenders.

"The resident fairy?" Puck's hazel eyes had found him, one hand placed on his hip, lips wrapped around a thin Starbucks straw. The drink had to be organic or low fat or something...Or maybe Kurt was just having a bad day. Sam's eyebrow had cocked into his bangs. "What do I get if I win? And more importantly, how the hell do I win in the first place?"

So they came up with a list of rules, laid down terms.

In the end, Puck realized it was just a power struggle between the two of them.

Sam had his girl, Sam had the boyishly good looks, Sam had a _future. _

Puck knew he was being cruel. He knew he was being stupid._  
_

But in the end, Puck agreed.

In the end, Puck made a huge mistake.

* * *

_1. You must have 200 points to be a REAL badass_

_2. Everything must be voluntary (includes groping)_

_3. No one will know except us (Sam and Puck)_

_4. If you (Puck) lose, you have to walk around the school in a dress and tell everyone that you're a huge pussy_

_5. If I (Noah Puckerman) win, you (idiot)__, will leave my badassness alone and understand that I am a BEAST. Also, I get a year of free lunch and you have to tell everyone how manly and sexy I am._

_Hug - 10 (you're a pussy)  
_

_Kiss - 20_

_Kiss (with tongues) - 50_

_Grope - 50_

_Any kind of sexual act (bj, hj, etc)- 100_

_

* * *

_**Just the prologue. **

**More soon, with a deeper story line.**

**Anything that I should add to the rules? Review and let me know.  
**

**xoxo:)  
**


	2. Waltz

:)

* * *

_1. You must have 500 points to be a REAL badass_

_2. Everything must be voluntary (includes groping)_

_3. No one will know except us (Sam and Puck)_

_4. If you (Puck) lose, you have to walk around the school in a dress and tell everyone that you're a huge pussy_

_5. If I (Noah Puckerman) win, you (idiot)__, will leave my badassness alone and understand that I am a BEAST. Also, I get a year of free lunch and you have to tell everyone how manly and sexy I am._

_Hug - 10 (you're a pussy)  
_

_Kiss - 20_

_Kiss (with tongues) - 50_

_Grope - 50_

_Any kind of sexual act (bj, hj, etc)- 100_

_Meet the parental units - 100  
_

_"I love you" - automatic win.  
_

_

* * *

_

"Hey, Hummel."

"If you've come to make an moronic and nonsensical comment, please, keep it inside that entirely disgusting mouth of yours."

That stung, just a little. Puck drew his head back a little, indignant, and stepped in front of the soprano's locker, blocking him in. "Jesus, who pissed in your cereal this morning?"

Kurt's nose tipped up towards the ceiling and he let out a little huff of annoyance. "You did, you Neanderthal. When you threw that slushie all over my new Chanel jacket. Furthermore, I _really _don't have time for this."

"Yeah, sorry about that." He scratched at the thin strip of hair on his head as Kurt tried desperately to step around him (which, in the crowded hallway, was turning out to be a feat). "Listen, Hum-Kurt, I need your help."

Kurt's eyebrows disappeared into his perfect bangs. "What makes you think, after all the slushie facials and dumpster dives, that I would ever help you?"

"I was just...hoping." He let his eyes bore into Kurt's, hoping they were more green than brown that day, and bit his lip. Vulnerable, but still sexy as hell.

Kurt seemed completely unfazed. "Could you move your huge clown feet out of my way? I have French class this period."

Puck caught his arm as Kurt tried to push his way past him. "Hummel, come on, I'm begging here."

A little flicker of pity sparked in the smaller boy's marine eyes. He shook his arm out of Puck's grip and reached up to push a few fingers through his bangs, obviously considering Puck's plea for help. In his right pocket, Puck's fingers were crossed.

"And what do I get in return here, Puckerman?"

A huge grin split over Puck's face; he didn't even try to hide it. Kurt's mouth ticked upward. "I'll buy you a freaking drink, babe! Whatever! Just help me!"

Kurt sighed, sounding positively irritated, and swept past him.

Puck watched him walk away, noting the little sway in his girly hips, and wondered just how long Kurt would last until he was wrapped around Puck's finger.

* * *

"No, Puckerman, this leg!" Kurt's warm hand found Puck's thigh, his fingers warm through the jock's jeans. Puck growled, irritated, and tried again. "No, it's like -"

"When am I _ever _going to use this?"

Puck had thought it was a clever plan: ask Kurt to teach him how to dance, then seduce the hell out of him once they were in the empty classroom alone.

However, the plan had its flaws.

Flaws such as the fact that _Puck really couldn't dance the waltz. _

Puck cursed, averting his eyes as Kurt sighed and unbuttoned the first three buttons on his Chanel dress shirt, face flushed considerably from the cardio.

"Your wedding, prom, whenever. It's a highly appreciated skill." He passed a few fingers over his perfect bangs, grasping Puck's shoulder tighter as they started to move again. Puck swore again as his foot slipped the wrong way and Kurt's pointed-toe boot came down on his converse. "If you didn't want to learn, then why did you ask for help?"

He hid a smirk. _If only you knew, Hummel. _"It impresses the ladies."

Kurt's blue-green eyes rolled, snatching Puck's fingers as the jock's hand slid lower down his back. "My left shoulder blade, Puckerman, not my ass."

"In your dreams." He tried viciously to keep the color from seeping into his cheeks. "My arm is getting tired."

Kurt glanced toward the window, watching the rain slip down the glass, momentarily distracted before Puck's foot stomped heavily down on his toes.

The soprano squeaked, but didn't stop. Seizing his entire upper-body strength, he dropped Puck into a low dip and then jerked him back up again. Puck beamed.

"Now _that _is a stud move. Teach me?"

Kurt sighed. "Alright, put your hands...Yeah, right there."

Puck hid his smug smile as his muscled arm fit around Kurt perfectly, holding him close. He could feel Kurt's chest pressed into his, his thigh bent between Puck's legs.

"Now, just let me drop a little." Kurt leaned back in Puck's arms, making him loosen his grip. Puck tried not to focus on the way Kurt's arching back felt under his hands, how the exposed skin from his unbuttoned skirt looked utterly delectable.

Because Kurt was hot.

He had admitted it to himself many times before, but now, with Kurt so close to him, he felt the heat of pure lust rushing through him.

Not that it was an unfamiliar emotion to Puck.

He had a thing for tight pants and suspenders.

* * *

**Review, por favor. **

**More sooooooon. :)  
**

**xoxo  
**


	3. Tomato Red

:)

* * *

_Hug - 10 (you're a pussy)  
_

_Kiss - 20_

_Kiss (with tongues) - 50_

_Grope - 50_

_Any kind of sexual act (bj, hj, etc)- 100_

_Meet the parental units - 100  
_

_"I love you" - automatic win.  
_

_

* * *

_

Kurt wiped a hand across his brow, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Puck had to be the worst waltzer that the soprano had ever encountered.

Not to mention the way Puck was looking at him.

Those hazel eyes keep traveling up and down Kurt's lean frame, almost hungry, almost curious.

It was the look that Puck gave cheerios, MILFs, substitute teachers.

Not the Resident Fairy Boy.

Being on the receiving end of that look made Kurt uncomfortable. Weary. Careful. He stepped out of Puck's grasp, feeling entirely _too _close to the jock, and let out a long sigh.

"Noah Puckerman, I do believe you're beyond repair."

"Are you serious?" He looked sincerely distraught. "Shit, I was really gonna milk this one."

Kurt cocked his head to the side, considering him, and dropped ceremoniously into a desk. "Maybe not entirely beyond repair. I just need a break."

Puck leaned against the cool wall, arms crossing over his chest. In his black v-neck and tight Levi's, he was nearly drool worthy.

If Kurt Hummel actually drooled.

Which he didn't.

Ever.

Especially over Noah Puckerman.

Kurt was suddenly aware of the uncomfortable silence in the room. To fill the space, he asked quietly, "So, who are you trying - and failing, might I add - to impress?"

"Chicks." There was an odd smile on the jock's face, like he knew something that Kurt didn't. Kurt felt uneasy.

"Any particular 'chick'?" He prodded gently, smoothing his button-down. Puck snorted.

"They're all the same, aren't they?" The second the words fell out of his mouth, he realized how terrible they sounded. But to Puck, especially lately, girls were beginning to seem...boring. Repetitive. He was sick of the PMS, the girly flirtations, the mini skirts.

Which was why, he guessed, Kurt always looked so _sexy. _His eyes found the pale, perfect skin that Kurt's unbuttoned shirt revealed. So untarnished, so new. Territory that Puck had yet to explore or plunder. He averted his eyes.

"That's a terrible thing to say." Kurt's jaw clenched. Puck shrugged a shoulder and decided that he better backtrack a little.

"I mean...They're not all the same. I'm just...I want several chicks?" The last part was more of a question. Kurt's eyes narrowed. "Okay, that's bullshit." Suddenly, it was. "There's one...girl."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, arms tucking across his lean chest. Puck wondered if he would actually believe him.

"She's pretty sexy." Puck's eyes traveled down Kurt again, following his almost nonexistent curves, and back up to meet his teal eyes. A smile, big and suggestive, worked its way onto Puck's face. His tongue swept across his full bottom lip.

Kurt blinked twice. "What are you doing?"

"What? Nothing."

"You're licking your lips."

"No, I'm not."

"You're blushing."

"No, I'm not! I don't blush. I'm too tan and badass to blush."

"Your cheeks are red, Puck. Like a two cherry tomatoes."

"You're lying."

"Now your entire face is red."

"It's...hot in here!"

"You _have _to have a better cover up than that."

"Yeah, I should go now."

Kurt let out a little tinkle of laughter that made him hesitate in the doorway. "What's gotten into you?"

"Maybeifyoudidn'twearthosehotpantsallthetime,Iwouldn'tbesostupidaroundyou."

"What?" The smile on Kurt's face slid away, confusion swirling in his eyes.

Puck bit the inside of his cheek to keep from repeating himself. "Can you try to teach me this later? I have...stuff to do."

"Of c-"

He was gone before the rest of Kurt's sentence left his lips.

* * *

"I'll bet you one hundred dollars that Puck won't be able to resist you."

Kurt's eyebrow twitched upward, meeting Mercedes' eyes. He poked at his vegan wrap, suddenly losing his appetite. "What makes you think he has any interest in me at all?"

His best friend scoffed. "Boy, have you _seen _the way he's been looking at you lately? You're like a piece of meat of something."

Kurt found Puck across the cafeteria; the jock looked hurriedly away, hazel eyes locking onto his sandwich. "A hundred dollars? That'll buy me the new Michael Kors scarf."

"Yes, yes it will." Mercedes winked.

"And it's morally wrong to bet on a person's emotions."

"The Michael Kors scarf is scarlet."

"And I'd be beaten to a pulp if he finds out."

"It's also 100% silk."

A half smile tugged at the corner of Kurt's mouth. Extending his hand, he wrapped his fingers firmly around Mercedes', sealing the deal. "One hundred dollars that Noah Puckerman utters the three beautiful words."

"I own Prada?"

"You always know just what to say."

* * *

**The plot thickens. **

**They're both betting on each other now...Ohh dear.  
**

**PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE review. please. :)**

**xoxoxo  
**


	4. In One Week

_Hug - 10 (you're a pussy)  
_

_Kiss - 20_

_Kiss (with tongues) - 50_

_Grope - 50_

_Any kind of sexual act (bj, hj, etc)- 100_

_Meet the parental units - 100  
_

_"I love you" - automatic win.  
_

_

* * *

_

"How is this possible?"

Puck stopped in his tracks.

He had been skipping math (as always) and roaming the campus for a geek to toss in the dumpster when the familiar voice found his ears.

He walked backward, taking careful steps, and peered slyly down the West Wing hallway. His eyes grabbed onto a small figure near the boys bathroom, alone and rather...sticky.

Kurt Hummel with his arms stretched out, obviously examining the entirety of his body, which was covered completely in a purple slush.

"Hummel? What happened to you?" He let his feet carry him closer, one eyebrow raised comically high at the sight of the soprano's indignant face.

"The neanderthals managed," He started, sounding choked, "to slushy my entire Versace outfit - which, by the way, is from the new collection and is _new _to my wardrobe - _and _my hair."

"That's rough." Puck stuffed his fists into his pockets and decided that he'd walked into a perfect opportunity. Clearing his throat, he jerked his head toward the locker room. "Hey, uh, I have extra shorts and stuff in my football locker. I mean, if you don't have stuff already."

Kurt did have 'stuff already'. He had at least three extra outfits shoved into his tiny locker, and they were waiting for him just down the hall. But thinking of the scarlet, silk scarf, he pulled himself to his full height and said, "I would appreciate that. Thanks."

* * *

Puck stuck his hand into his locker, not bothering to actually look inside, and dragged out his smallest pair of basketball shorts and his favorite black v-neck. He almost stuffed the tee shirt back, but Kurt's teal eyes were on his hands.

"So..these will probably fit you." He passed over the shorts. Kurt accepted them gratefully. "And, uh, this will probably be big on you...My shoulders are bigger than yours and my guns are killer, so..."

He trailed off, unable to remember what he was trying to express. Kurt nodded. "Thank you, Puck. It means -"

"Yeah, just...Make sure to give everything back and stuff." Kurt jerked his head again in agreement. Puck ran a hand over the strip of hair on his head, twitching in the awkward silence.

Kurt's thin fingers found the purple-dyed edges of his designer shirt. Puck had the sudden urge to look away, to hide his face, to give Kurt his privacy.

But something, probably the heated look in Kurt's eyes, the subtle way he was biting the edge of his lip, the way there was some type of magnetic, lustful pull toward the soprano, made Puck unable to remove his eyes.

Kurt pulled his shirt up and off, nimble fingers dragging it carefully over his perfect hair, and let it fall softly onto the floor.

Puck felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

Kurt slipped a hand down his own chest, fingers finding the button on his jeans.

Puck blinked. _What was happening?_ He took a step forward, staring into Kurt's emotion-filled irises, and reached out a hand.

His fingertips brushed the curve of Kurt's neck, where the soft, sticky skin met his shoulder.

At Puck's touch, Kurt let out a soft little moan that made Puck's skin tingle, made heat rush through his veins, made him lower his head and lick a thin line through the purple dye.

Kurt's hands left his waistline and reached to cling at the front of Puck's shirt, pulling the jock's muscled body flush against his own thin frame.

Puck moved his mouth upward, licking a clean path up Kurt's sticky neck, and placed a soft kiss on the very corner of his parted lips. He wanted to give him a _real _kiss. A hot, gasp-worthy kiss that Kurt would never forget, no matter how long he lived.

He was so very close to kissing him, when something in his brain clicked.

The bet.

What was it, 10 points for a kiss?

Suddenly, he didn't want to kiss Kurt so much anymore.

Suddenly, it wasn't _pure._

He stepped back, almost tripping over his own feet. Kurt's fingers left the front of his tee shirt, leaving little wrinkled spots where his hands had clenched the fabric.

Puck a few more stumbling steps, unable to walk properly. His jeans felt uncomfortably tight.

For a heart fluttering second, Kurt looked as though he was going to say something, anything, to make Puck stay.

But his mouth closed, a little smirk falling onto his lips like he knew something Puck didn't.

Like there was a little secret just under the surface, floating under his teal irises.

* * *

"It needs to be all or nothing."

Sam looked up from his sheet music. "Huh?"

"I need to up the stakes."

"Why?" He pushed a hand through his blonde hair. Puck felt like taking a pair of scissors the Bieber bangs.

"Do you have to ask questions?" Because he wanted to kiss Kurt without feeling like a total douche. Although, he realized, upping the stakes might not fix that problem. Sam shrugged a shoulder.

"Alright, whatever. It's your pride and badassness that we're betting here."

There was the whoosh of a door opening; Puck glanced over his shoulder and watched Kurt and Mercedes flounce into the choir room. He was wearing the v-neck, but Puck's basketball shorts had been replaced by a tight pair of skinny jeans. The sight was enough to make goosebumps rise on the jock's tan skin. Lowering his voice and leaning closer to the blonde, he whispered, "'I love you'."

"Thanks, man, but I -"

"No, dude. 'I love you'. In a week. That's how I win."

Sam raised an eyebrow and looked past him, obviously locking onto Kurt's face. "Alright."

* * *

Mercedes laced her fingers into Kurt's, pulling him close. "Who's shirt is that?"

Kurt smoothed the fabric, liking the way the cotton felt under his fingers. He leaned over to sniff his own shoulder. "Well, it smells like Axe and hazelnut coffee. Two guesses?"

"Puckerman?" Her eyes snapped to the jock, who was leaning against the piano, talking to Sam in hushed tones. "Damn, boy, you've got more moves than a chicken in heat."

Kurt blinked. "That's disgusting and revolting and I cannot believe you just said that."

"Yeah, well..."

"He hasn't even kissed me yet, Cedes." There was a little smile of his face. "He just gave me the shirt because I'd been slushied."

Mercedes lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What are you, some type of magical seducer?"

Kurt laughed. "Just you wait, Ms. Jones. Wait and see. In one week, I will make Noah Puckerman fall in love with me."

Mercedes gave an evil smile. "One scarlet scarf, coming your way."

* * *

**Review, por favor.**


	5. The Grocery Store

**Remember to review.**

**I don't own it, just so you know ;)  
**

* * *

_"I love you"_.

_Day 7 (6 to go)._

* * *

Puck was trying desperately to convince himself that the reason he wanted to rip Kurt's clothes off was the bet.

His badassness was on the line; he'd do anything to prove himself.

That's all it was.

Right?

Wrong.

His brain was the problem. It kept flashing him images of Kurt's cute smile, his tight ass, his bright eyes. He wondered just _why_ a large amount of boredom had resulted in weird, crush-like (and extremely lustful) affection for Resident Fairy Boy. Anyone, Puck knew, would assume the opposite type of prey; after Puck had voiced his boredom to Finn and Mike, they'd kept their girlfriends exceptionally close that day.

His fingers clenched around the tub of ice cream that he had pulled randomly out of the grocery freezer and tried very hard not to imagine Kurt licking chocolate syrup off a very taut -

"Puckerman?"

He dropped the ice-cream in surprise. It hit the floor with a dull "thud" and rolled under a cardboard Christmas tree holding cookie-shaped boxes of Animal Crackers. There was a soft twitter of laughter (Puck knew it would be forever burned into his memory; just another thing to add to his fantasies) and Puck turned to meet Kurt's teal eyes. "You stalking me, Kurt?"

"Ha." He let out the short laugh with his nose raised in the air, in a you-wish-that-you-were-important-enough-for-me-to-stalk way. He took a few long strides and bent to retrieve Puck's frozen goodness from under the cardboard tree. Puck fought valiantly not to stare at his navy blue clad backside.

_Stupid skin-tight skinny jeans._

"'Moosetracks'." Kurt read quickly off the side, his eyebrow ticking slowly upward. Puck wanted to kiss the soft smirk off his condescending lips. "That doesn't sound very appetizing."

Puck tugged the ice-cream from his grip. "I will bet -" He grinned a little at the irony "- that you've never tasted anything like it."

Kurt wiggled one of his eyebrows in a way that would have been incredibly sexy if Puck hadn't been so taken aback. "Sounds dangerous."

"Most people like the thrill." He shot back immediately, not fully realizing what he was saying. He knew they weren't talking about ice-cream anymore.

"Mmmm." Kurt subtly, very slyly, licked his lips. An uneasy, suspicious feeling swirled in Puck's stomach.

Kurt was _flirting_.

With him.

In a very sexual way.

Puck felt like pinching himself.

Instead, though, he closed that little space between them, pushing Kurt backward, toward the freezer, and looped his fingers into the soprano's unused belt loops. "Do _you_ like the thrill, Kurt?"

There was a little gasp as Puck pressed him against the freezer glass, as their bodies connected everywhere, almost perfectly aligned (Puck prided himself suddenly, realizing that Kurt's nose would touch his lips).

He never answered the question; Puck guessed he didn't have to. His fingers found the collar of Puck's jacket, pulling his face closer. Taking a moment of self indulgence, he glanced down, drinking in the way his v-neck hung loosely on Kurt's thin frame.

Then, looking up again, he said, "Damn Kurt, I don't think my t-shirt has ever looked so sexy. And its _mine._"

Kurt gave a little smile, one that made Puck's stomach clench, just a little, and pressed a searing kiss into the jock's more than willing lips.

Kissing Kurt felt new.

A new type of dominance, a new type of fire, a new type of heart-pounding, gut-twisting feeling.

Sexy, magical, beautiful, hot.

Anything, anything but boring.

Puck's fingers slipped into Kurt's back pockets, dragging his pelvis closer, sinking harder into him. The soprano moaned into his mouth, kissing ferociously, like they would never see each other again. His tongue swept out, licking a line across Puck's pouting bottom lip.

Seizing the moment (and Kurt's tight, sexy bottom), Puck dragged him upward, picking him off the ground and successfully pinning him against the freezer door. Kurt wrapped his long legs around Puck's waist, his hands finding the thin strip of hair at the nape of his neck, fingers raking hurriedly through the mohawk.

Puck felt as though his body was on fire; the rush made him kiss deeper, made his fingers dig deeper, made him want to drink in every moan, every scorching touch, every kiss that Kurt was giving him.

"Uh...Excuse me, sir...s? Sirs?"

Kurt froze in Puck's grasp.

The jock broke the kiss reluctantly, his teeth pulling at Kurt's bottom lip before he finally let go, and glanced to his right. A short girl with bad acne and a cart full of Briers was staring at them with wide, frightened eyes.

"S-sorry to, uh, interrupt, but you're blocking..." She trailed off and gestured toward the glass that Kurt's back was pressed against. Puck sighed, giving Kurt a dejected look.

"I guess I should put you down." He let Kurt drop his legs, the soprano's fancy shoes making soft clapping noises as they landed on the tiled floor. "Sorry about that."

The girl was bright red.

Kurt winked at him (Puck nearly lost it) and gave a soft little wave that looked something like a promise.

Like a I'll-definitely-being-seeing-you-later promise.

Like a you-turn-me-on-and-I-want-to-do-that-again promise.

Like a I-might-be-interested-in-you promise.

Puck watched him walk away, that little sway in his step, and grinned so wide that it hurt.

* * *

**Review, please. I love them more than anything.  
**

**Kurt's look on things next chapter. :)  
**

**p.s. that actually happened to one of my friends once.**

**And so inspires that grocery store make-out session.  
**


	6. Janitor's Closet

**Remember to review, please.**

**I don't own it, just so you know ;)  
**

* * *

_"I love you"_.

_Day 7 (6 to go)._

_

* * *

_

Kurt dropped into the chair beside Mercedes. His bag was too heavy on his shoulder; he hefted it up and onto the table with a light thud. She glanced up at him unenthusiastically, seeming to find nothing interesting etched into his features, and looked down again.

Then, she double-took, suddenly finding something hidden under his perfect facade.

"What happened?"

"A kiss."

"Hot?"

"Very." He wiggled his eyebrows, just a little, for her benefit, and tried very hard not to break out into girlish squeals that were far below him. Mercedes' cupped hand covered her Gucci-red lips.

Kurt felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at his friend's surprised expression. It had hit him late the night before as he curled up under his 1,500 thread count sheets: he, Kurt Hummel, had initiated a toe-curling lip-lock with none other than Noah Puckerman, the studliest, _straightest _jock at McKinley.

He slipped his fingers through his hair, grinning wildly in satisfaction, and appreciated the gushing way Mercedes begged for the dirty details.

For the rest of the day, though, he avoided Puck like he was wearing stirrup pants or carrying an extra large slushie. Despite the unfailing sense of pride at his nearly impossible achievements, his nervous intuition kept his eyes on the floor whenever Puck's dark head turned his way.

Unfortunately, he underestimated Puck's undying persistence. He tried numerous times to corner Kurt, to reach for his arm, to ask him if they could talk. Every time, Kurt managed to dodge him.

Until, of course, he was strutted past a janitor's closet on his way to English and a hand snatched him by his McQueen tie, dragging him into darkness and the undeniable stench of bleach and turpentine.

And then lips.

Hot, needy, against his own.

Hands.

Diving under his shirt, popping a few buttons (Kurt nearly screamed, but _damn _did it feel good), dancing over his bare skin.

A breathy moan.

Released in surprise when Kurt nipped playfully at a full bottom lip.

Then, words.

"Why are you avoiding me, Hummel?"

Kurt smirked a little at the bluntness of the question (that was Puck, after all) and stuck out a hand, searching wildly in the dark for the light switch. "Don't flatter yourself, Puckerman. You're not significant enough for me to avoid."

"Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?"

"Well, did it?" There was silence and then a click; Kurt had finally found the chain to the single light bulb. It bathed them in a harsh yellow light. "Moving forward, is there any sane reason that you dragged me into this disgusting janitorial closet?"

Puck raised a eyebrow, as if to say "duhh". Kurt swallowed, fighting back the urge to jump his bones, and reached for the doorknob.

His hand never gripped the cool metal, because suddenly, Puck's fingers had wrapped themselves around his silk tie, and Kurt's body was gently being tugged back to the tall jock.

His mohawked head dipped down a little, pressing a hot kiss into the smooth skin below Kurt's jaw. "Actually, it did kind of hurt my feelings." Kurt's stomach fluttered; he reached out and hooked his fingers into Puck's belt. "Because you're important to _me_."

Kurt was suddenly filled with the uncontrollable need to feel that addictive heat, the insane urge to kiss every inch of Puck's toned body. He plunged his fingers under the jock's tee shirt, hungrily smoothing over the ridges of his tensed stomach muscles, and gasped when he felt Puck slip his Oxford shirt carefully down one shoulder, exposing the patch of porcelain skin.

His lips sucked and licked a soft line up Kurt's shoulder, across his collarbone, up the smooth skin on his neck. But he hesitated slightly, swollen lips hovering just over Kurt's.

The soprano felt heat radiating from every pore; he _needed _those talented lips against his own. Seizing a questionable amount of courage, he slipped his hands into Puck's back pockets and jerked him forward, crashing their lips and bodies together.

The result was instantaneous; he felt every nerve explode, every muscles aching to be touched, every breathy moan a plead for more. There was the slight roll of hips; Puck's breath hitched in his throat as they moved together in all the right places.

Kurt felt the jock's tongue flick against his own, warm.

And then the late bell rang, blasting in their ears.

Kurt was pushed away, gently, despite his soft protests.

"I'm not about to make you a delinquent, Hummel." Puck grinned a little when he pulled the Oxford back up the soprano's thin shoulder.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Why?"

Because he felt guilty enough as it was. "Because...that's not how I roll. I'm a good guy, you know. _Go to class, _Hummel."

Kurt's hand found the doorknob; he pulled it open after a moment's hesitation. "Would you please use my real name? This last name thing is getting old, no matter how cool you think you sound."

"Screw you, Kurt."

* * *

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	7. Gatorade and Hard Places

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* * *

_"I love you"_.

_Day 4 (3 to go)  
_

* * *

"Puck."

Soft hands, always finding their way under his tee shirt, tracing his muscles.

"Puck."

Full lips, hot, against his own.

"Puck!"

Bright teal eyes, beautiful, nearly curve-less body, immediately demanding attention whenever he sashayed into the room.

"Puckerman!"

"What?" He opened one hazel eye, taking in the choir room. Finn, brow furrowed, crossed his arms over his chest like an angry five-year-old.

"I've been calling your name forever! Are you ignoring me or something?"

Puck let his other eye fall open, and then rolled them. "I was daydreaming, Hudson. What do you want?"

Finn looked uncomfortable; he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and glanced down at his shoes. Puck hoped he wasn't going to have to explain another sexual innuendo to his dopey friend. "People have been talking." He hesitated, biting anxiously at the inside of his cheek. Puck gestured for him to continue. "They've been saying stuff about you. A-and Kurt. Like...that you like each other or something."

His stomach twisted oddly; he reached for his guitar and ran his fingers carefully down the strings. Finn twisted his lips.

"I just want to know if they're true...or whatever. Because he's my stepbrother now, Puck, I have to look out for him. I mean, you're just not right for - "

"So, you're saying, if Hummel and I were involved in some way - _which we're not - _you wouldn't approve of me?" He strummed out the first few notes to a Green Day song, avoiding eye contact with his former best friend. He heard Finn shift awkwardly.

"You're not a bad guy or anything. You just...Kurt deserves something more like...That kid Blaine from Dalton, you know?" His voice was a little clearer; Puck realized that Blaine had obviously won Finn's vote for Best Boy For Kurt. "But if the rumors aren't true, I guess we don't really have to have this conversation...right?"

"I'm not a homo, Hudson."

Finn ducked his head. "Yeah. I know."

* * *

Sam twisted the cap of his Gatorade, tightening it. His green eyes were traveling around the classroom, not bothering to land anywhere in particular, his ears closed to the monotone lecture that was currently being given. Quinn shifted beside him.

"I heard that you're about to lose your bet."

His eyes flicked to her pretty face. Barbie-like but nonetheless, pretty. "Where?"

"I overheard Kurt gushing about him in English. Puck's got him wrapped around his entire hand." Quinn reached over to trace a few of Sam's knuckles, a little smile playing on her lips. "I also heard that you've never lost a bet before."

Sam nodded. "Never."

And he wasn't about to now.

* * *

"Kurt?"

He finished straightening his tie before he glanced up. "What can I do for you, Sam Evans?"

"I heard that you have a gambling problem."

Kurt arched an eyebrow, teal eyes burning into Sam's green irises. "Did you?"

"I did." The jock leaned carefully against the lockers and pushed his blonde bangs out of his eyes. "Puckerman is a tough bet, Kurt. He's a badass, you know."

"And according to Mercedes, I'm a magical seducer. What's your point, Evans?"

There was a little smile ticking at the corner of his pouty mouth. "I have a proposition."

"And who says I want to hear it?" Kurt shot back, wanting nothing more than to shake a little cockiness out of Sam's eyes.

"I do." His tone made Kurt want to slam his locker and walk away, but something (maybe the way Sam was looking at him, with some type of concern written on his face) made him nod. "Puckerman won't ever say it, you know."

It was Kurt's turn to smile. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Because his reputation relies on your seducing."

Kurt felt his heart give a little tug. He ignored it. "You made a bet with him?"

"You did the exact same thing, Kurt. Plus, I think the dude really likes you. He always smiles when you walk in the room." Sam pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Kurt tucked his chin, just a little, and clutched the strap of his leather messenger bag tighter. "Anyway, no one has to find out you bet on his feelings."

The soprano pushed a few fingers through his hair, sighing. "What do you want?"

"To win."

Kurt glanced over his shoulder, watching the students around them laugh and joke with their friends, oblivious to what was happening. "And how exactly am I supposed to help you do that?"

That little smile turned into a full blown grin. "I need you to give him an ultimatum."

Kurt's eyebrow twitched upward. "What ultimatum?"

"Either he has to say he loves you, out loud, in the cafeteria during lunch hour, or..." He waved his hand a bit, dragging out the dramatic effect. Kurt resisted the urge to punch him square in the mouth.

"And if I don't give him said ultimatum?"

"Then everyone will somehow find out what a slut you've been behind closed doors." Sam flicked his bangs out of his eyes, that little grin fading just enough to send a little flutter of fear through Kurt's thin frame. The soprano swallowed and managed a jerky nod that made Sam's arrogant face fill with satisfaction. "Good. Here's my number."

He held out a ripped piece of paper; Kurt pinched it between his middle finger and thumb like it was infected with an acne-causing disease that ruined his complexion forever.

"Call me once he's decided to confess."

And then he turned on his heel, flashed Kurt an award-worthy smile, and walked away, leaving the soprano between a rock and a hard place.

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	8. Basically

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* * *

_"I love you"_.

_Day 3 (2 to go)  
_

* * *

Kurt pushed a few fingers through his hair. His phone was pressed into his palm. Sam was number five on his speed dial.

He was ready.

But he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his car and drive away. Drive back home, drive to Dalton, drive anywhere.

Anywhere but here.

But there was a tugging in his heart. An odd, entirely new pull on his emotions that kept him grounded.

Because if he left, Puck would find out the hard way that it had all been a game.

And if it was the last thing that Kurt did, he would prevent that.

Because suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore. It wasn't a bet. It wasn't fake. Somehow, everything had evolved.

Kurt pressed his fingers into his temple, eyelids fluttering closed.

He was going to win the bet for Sam.

And then, he was going to fix things.

* * *

Puck fiddled with the lock on his locker. He hadn't bothered the memorize the combination; he never brought anything other than himself (or the occasional backpack, filled usually with candy and booze), so there was no reason to confuse himself with more numbers.

The only reason he was standing there, the only reason why he wasn't out tormenting Jacob or shooting spit balls at the back of Figgins' head as he walked to his office was Kurt.

Kurt, who had sent him a short "_be at your locker at 8:25"_ text.

He could almost hear his heart pounding through his thin tee shirt. Kurt always made his heart do that. It beat so quickly, he felt like he was going to pass out or something.

Only he never did, because Kurt's fingers would always brush his, and he felt safe. Calmer. Happy.

But today, when Kurt's slim figure sashayed through the front door and he stopped a few feet from Puck's face, he didn't reach out. He didn't casually brush invisible lint of Puck's shoulder, he didn't sweep a hand over a nonexistent wrinkle.

The soprano didn't touch him at all.

He just stared into Puck's face, searching it for a moment, and then said, "I think we need to stop."

"Stop what?"

Kurt cocked a eyebrow. He lifted a few fingers and tugged the fancy collar of his jacket away from his neck. A red bruise contrasted with the smooth porcelain skin. "That."

"Why?" Puck reached over and pulled the collar back up, glancing around to see if anyone had been watching them. No one - not even Israel, who was known for his snooping - was looking their way.

"I...I refuse to be used."

Puck shook his head. "You're the one who started everything! You and those stupid skinny jeans!" Which, of course, Kurt happened to be wearing at that moment. Puck had to seize a deep breath and the rest of his self control not to stare down at his long, sexy legs. "Listen, Kurt. I like you."

"You like my body." It was acidic; Kurt's eyes were cold. "That's all you 'like' me for."

"No, that's-"

His knuckles had turned white from clutching the strap of his messenger bag so tightly. "And even if you did 'like' me, that's not enough, Puckerman."

He wasn't enough.

Puck felt his heart jump into his throat. Finn's words were echoing through his head like a broken record.

_You're not a bad guy or anything. You just...Kurt deserves something more like...That kid Blaine from Dalton, you know?_

He fought the urge to punch something.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he wasn't good enough.

He wanted to walk away, shrug his shoulder indifferently and forget about everything that happened between them.

He wanted to forget Kurt's warm lips, his pretty smile, his witty eloquence.

The way he felt when he was around the soprano, how he felt when Kurt kissed him, how Kurt's skin felt against his lips.

He wanted to forget everything.

But suddenly, words started pouring out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"I like when you laugh. And when you say sarcastic things, even though it makes me feel stupid. And when you laugh at the dumb things Finn does, I want to kiss you. I don't really know why, though. And I love the way your hair smells. It's kinda like coconut or something. And I love the taste of your lips. And you're really, really hilarious."

Kurt's eyebrows had disappeared into his bangs; his bottom lip trembled.

"Most of the time, I just want to be close to you. Most of the time, I go crazy when you're not around. Basically, Kurt, I fucking love you."

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	9. Shattered

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* * *

Kurt dropped his phone.

He seemed to lose the ability to hold onto it; his fingers went limp, and it fell out of his palm.

And even before it hit the floor, he was scrabbling to pick it up again.

Except his hands were shaking so badly that the smooth exterior kept slipping out of his grasp. His knees hit the hard hallway floor as it skidded away from him, spinning toward the curve in one of Puck's beat-up Converse.

His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He couldn't meet Puck's eyes.

Because if he looked up, Puck might be laughing at him. Might shake his head and clap a hand on his shoulder, teasing him for being so gullible.

Because that would _hurt_.

Because with all his heart, Kurt wanted Puck to be telling the truth.

Long fingers looped around his phone, pulling it off the floor, and a hand found his elbow, dragging him back to his feet. There was a set of hazel eyes glancing down, his finger smoothing over the cracked glass. And suddenly, his brow furrowed in confusion.

His eyes narrowed.

He muttered a curse word under his breath.

Because Sam Evans' contact was open on the screen.

Because Kurt's thumb had been poised ever so carefully over the call button.

The jock looked up, glaring into Kurt's face. The countertenor opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words seemed to dry in his mouth.

Puck held out his hand, Kurt's phone flat in his palm. Kurt's fingers shook when he reached out to take it.

He never touched it; Puck turned his palm over just as one of his fingers brushed a few buttons. It fell, smashed into the tile, and the screen shattered into a million pieces.

The glass under the passersby made sharp crunching noises that seemed to echo through Kurt's ears.

Puck shoved one hand into his pocket, his hazel eyes stormy, and brought the other up to flash Kurt his longest finger.

And the worst part of it all, Kurt mused later, was that all the countertenor could do was _blink_.

* * *

Kurt felt Mercedes loop an arm around him, dragging him close. She didn't say anything; she rested her head against his shoulder, lips pressed into a tight line, and rubbed soothing circles into his back. Kurt was grateful for the silence.

He sniffled, dotted a tissue under both eyes, and glanced at his incredibly unattractive reflection. "You owe me a scarf, Ms. Jones." She nodded into his shoulder. "But unfortunately, I don't think I'd ever be able to wear it."

"This isn't the victory you pictured, it is?" She gave a small, knowing smile. It made Kurt's heart clench.

Because if she knew, if she had any idea that everything would end this way, that Kurt would feel so terrible, then why didn't she say anything?

"Not exactly." He said dryly, gently shaking her arms off him. Mercedes' knowing smile turned into sympathy; Kurt suddenly wanted nothing more than to get away from her. "I'm going."

That wiped the smile off her face immediately. "Where?"

"Home." But instantly, he didn't want to go there at all. "Or to Dalton."

"Dalton?"

"Academy."

She cocked her head. "Why?"

Because he felt safe there. Because no one would judge him there. Because it was anywhere but McKinley. "Because Puck isn't there."

* * *

Puck punched a locker.

Which, he realized, wasn't entirely intelligent; his knuckles split, dripping blood onto the locker room floor.

"Shit!"

He shoved his hand under a faucet, trying to ignore the sting, and pressed his forehead against the foggy mirror. It was cool against his skin, momentarily soothing the pounding in his head.

"You didn't punch Hummel, did you?" It was drawled. Puck could almost see the sneer on his lips. "Because really, it wasn't his fault."

"You're an asshole." He lifted his forehead away from the glass and turned; Sam was leaning against the doorway, one eyebrow raised into his bangs.

"Oh, ouch, Puckerman. That really hurts. In here." He patted his heart and pretended to pout. Puck wished he didn't have a meeting with his probation officer the next day; he'd have no problem punching the kid square in his pretty little face.

Instead, he glared.

Sam flicked blonde hair out of his eyes and sighed. "Oh, Puckerman. You liked him a lot, didn't you?"

"What did you give him? The entire McQueen collection?" In an instant, Puck didn't want to hear the answer. He felt like covering his ears and shouting "la, la, la!" until Sam left.

But he didn't.

"To get him to work with me?" Sam shrugged a shoulder. "Nothing. Apparently, he hated you enough to break you down for free." Puck couldn't help the growl that rumbled up from his throat. A smile twitched at Sam's lips. "I guess that's karma, for you, Puckerman. Bet on someones heart, destroy your own. Jesus, that sounds corny."

He shook his Barbie head and straightened. Puck pressed his bleeding knuckles into his tee shirt and willed them to stop stinging so badly.

Sam twisted his lips, looking slightly resentful for a few seconds, and then started towards the door. There, he turned to smile back at Puck's infuriated profile.

"I win, Puck."

* * *

Kurt slipped his car in between a Jaguar and Chevy, teal eyes locked onto the front doors of Dalton. He could see someone leaning against the brick wall, waiting for the countertenor with his arms folded across his chest.

Kurt took a deep breath. His heart thumped wildly against his chest.

Because Blaine might be able to help him.

Might be able to fix everything.

Kurt just didn't know _how_.

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	10. Warm

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

* * *

"Kurt."

He seemed surprised, but happily so. Kurt wanted to break down then, wanted to throw himself helplessly at the Warbler and cry into his starched uniform.

He didn't, though.

He just sucked a breath into his chest, held out his hand, and said quietly, "Blaine. Good to see you again."

The Warbler opened his dorm door just slightly enough for Kurt to notice he wasn't, in fact, wearing his uniform at all; a crisp white tee shirt stretched over his muscly chest, and a pair of jeans that seemed to hug him in all the right places. The hand that clasped Kurt's gently was warm, soft, and fit into his like they were crafted for each other.

Finding him attractive, finding him _damn sexy, _just made Kurt feel worse.

He used a two fingers to massage away the pain in his head. "I was wondering if we could talk."

"Talk." The word rolled off Blaine's tongue as though he were tasting it; Kurt swallowed and glanced down at his feet. "Kurt, you don't look like you want to talk. You look like you want to cry and scream at the same time."

He opened the door wider, and with a little beckon of his curly head, ushered Kurt inside.

Once the countertenor was placed comfortable on the edge of Blaine's twin (extra-long) bed, the Warbler cleared his throat and said, "So, be honest with me, Kurt. What's going on?"

"I seem to be having...boy troubles." He felt the words in his throat, thought them in his mind, but they felt bizarre on his tongue.

Because, honestly, Kurt had never _had _"boy troubles" before.

Blaine reclined in his computer chair, one eyebrow disappearing into his dark hair. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Noah." It fell out of his mouth before he could even register what he was saying; Blaine tipped forward in his chair, resting his elbows carefully against his knees. "Noah Puckerman."

"The mohawk kid."

Kurt let a tired laugh shudder through him. "Yes. The mohawk kid."

Blaine bit down on his bottom lip, the pressure turning the puffy skin white. "And what happened?"

And so, it began. The long, incredibly twisted, confusing, thrilling story that had encompassed the last 6 days of Kurt's life. When it was over, when Kurt finally sat back on Blaine's bed, all the Warbler had to say was, "You guys actually mess with each other like that?"

Kurt looked down at Blaine's the navy comforter, spreading his fingers across the smooth fabric, and was unable to come up with a justifiable answer.

Because there really _wasn't_ a justifiable answer.

Blaine got up from his computer chair and slipped onto the bed beside Kurt, an arm wrapping around the countertenor's thin shoulders. "Maybe you just need something...simpler, Kurt. Something that's not so complicated and emotional and terrible."

Kurt could feel the warmth from the Warbler's palm burn through his Gucci pull-over. He let his head fall, just lightly, onto one of Blaine's broad shoulders, and breathed in his designer after-shave.

There was a moment, sitting there with Blaine's arms around him, that everything felt _simple _again.

Everything felt _right _again.

So Kurt closed his eyes, buried his nose in the crook of Blaine's neck, and let go.

* * *

"I'm over it."

"Puck, it's only been two hours."

"Over what?" Finn squeezed his way between Puck and Mercedes, his long limbs folding uncomfortable underneath him.

Previously, they'd been sitting quite comfortably on the front steps of McKinley, Puck's hazel eyes trained carefully on the parking lot. Mercedes knew it was for that first sign of that shiny SUV, though Puck's excuse was something along the lines of "just don't want to go home".

They sat there for a few moments in silence, three pairs of eyes searching the parking lot for something different, until Finn cleared his throat. "Over wh-?"

"Nothing, Finn! Jesus, keep your huge-ass nose out of my problems, okay?"

And then he was stomping away, hands shoved deep into his pockets, brow furrowed.

He made it halfway around the building and stopped, pressing his back into the brick wall, and stared up at the sky.

He felt ashamed.

Because, really, if he was "over it", when he wouldn't have reacted so violently.

And his chest really wouldn't feel so tight.

And he wouldn't be waiting, with bated breath, for Kurt's car to pull into the school parking lot.

Puck closed his eyes to the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin, and breathed in.

For a moment, he was calm. For a moment, it didn't hurt so badly.

But then, his ears picked up a furious, "HE DID _WHAT?", _roared from the mouth of a livid step-brother.

And then everything crashed on him again.

* * *

Kurt woke up warm.

Comfortable, with one arm laced around his waist, one threaded through his hair.

He woke up on top of a navy blue comforter, in a wrinkled Gucci pull-over, with someone's nose pressed into the back of his neck.

He sat up carefully, lightly lifting Blaine's arms away from him, and glanced around.

At one point, through Kurt's sobbing and confessions, Blaine had pulled him into a tight hug that seemed to last forever, until Kurt had finally fallen asleep in his arms.

It was simple; a friendly gesture, a warm comfort.

And frankly, simple was refreshing.

Kurt looked over his shoulder, watching Blaine's chest rise and fall in sleep.

Frankly, he mused, _Blaine _was refreshing.

* * *

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